


Shadows Lurking Close Behind

by blackreaperrr



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Auction, Drugging, Evil Slade Wilson, Gen, Kidnapped Dick Grayson, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, im sorry dick it seems i can only write about bad things happening to you, slade is not a good guy guys, sort of an apprentice au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26131714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackreaperrr/pseuds/blackreaperrr
Summary: It should have been an ordinary night of patrol. Dick Grayson is quickly finding out that that's not quite the case when masked intruders abduct him from his apartment in the middle of the night.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 102





	Shadows Lurking Close Behind

They come for him at night, after a long and tiring patrol around the city. He has barely enough energy to crawl in through his window, peeling his mask off and tossing it on the floor before collapsing into his bed, suit and all. He’s asleep in a matter of minutes.

He’s woken a few hours later by the shift of his bed as another person’s weight settles onto it, and in the dark he can see someone hovering over him, straddling him with their knees on either side of him. He has barely enough time to make a startled noise and try and shift to the side before hands clamp down on his arms, pinning him, and the figure above clamps a hand over his mouth, silencing his muffled shout and jerking his head to the side, exposing his neck.

He knows what’s going to happen the second before he feels the needle slide into his skin, the second before he feels the cold rush of something flood into his veins.

The grip holding him down to the bed loosens slightly, and he uses this to his advantage. He’s not incapacitated, not yet, although he can’t be sure how long he has before whatever is running through his veins puts him down for the count.

He twists his arms with a strength that surprises the figures holding him, and they lose their grip on his arms. Quickly tossing himself to the side, he and the person straddling him topple off the bed in a pile of limbs. He can already feel his body becoming heavy, and knows this has to happen quick.

Flipping himself to straddle the person below him, he deals them a quick punch to the throat before springing to his feet and kicking another in the gut. The third is distracted by the second stumbling into them, and they fall, tangled together. The window is still cracked from where the intruders made their entry, and he takes a step towards it before stumbling, knees suddenly weak.

His captors leap on this opportunity, all three having recovered from his punches, and tackle him to the ground. Once again, he finds himself with the weight of someone pinning him down, hands holding his arms to the carpet of his room.

His eyes are starting to droop, but he still thrashes weakly under the hold, desperate for release. He glares up at the figure above him, dressed in all black with their face covered.

“Damn, next time we’ll have to up the dose, the fucker is way to active for that heavy of a sedative,” the figure above says, voice still hoarse from his bruised throat.

He continues to glare, but a slow blink and his eyes refuse to open again, his thrashing reduced to weak twitches as his limbs lose muscle function and relax against his will.

“Finally, hold him for another minute and he should be out enough for transport,” a softer voice to his left says.

The last thing he’s aware of is the pressure leaving his body and someone lifting him up before he succumbs to the influence of the drugs.

__________________

He comes to in a hospital bed. There’s a moment of brief confusion, he thinks he’s in the cave for just a moment before the tug of leather restraints tight around his wrists alerts him to the fact that this is no ordinary injury recovery.

Shifting, he finds that his ankles are similarly bound, and there is a thick strap across his chest, pinning him there.

Groggily turning his head, he takes in the room around him. The walls are a grungy grey, with paint peeling in places and stains littering the rest. The floor is a cracked tile, and the only thing that seems remotely clean and in good shape is the bed he’s strapped to and the monitor beeping at his side.

A glance at the restraints on his wrist reveals the fabric of his uniform has been cut all the way up his bicep, and there is a row of neat stitches on the skin there. He feels a shock of panic run through him when he realizes that is where his tracker usually is.

He realizes after a moment that his mask is now attached to his face, an odd addition considering his identity is usually the first thing captors go after, and that he wasn’t wearing it when they broke into his apartment.

He lies there for what he estimates to be roughly an hour before he hears footsteps in the hall outside of the room, an hour he spent unsuccessfully trying to get out of the restraints and only managing to rub his wrists raw in the process.

The sound of a deadbolt turning marks the entry of several people filing into the room. The one in front appears to be in charge, with his pressed suit and slicked back hair. He doesn’t recognize him, but that hardly means anything with the amount of crime in Blüdhaven.

Directly behind him is a female doctor in a neat white lab coat, and bringing up the rear are two guards equipped with both handguns and semi-automatics. The one on the left is eyeing him, hand resting on the gun at his hip.

The man in front seems surprised that he’s awake, but quickly schools his expression to something neutral.

“Ah, so you’re awake. I guess my men were right when they said you had an unnatural resistance to the sedatives they gave you,” he says, “Imagine my surprise when stalking Wayne’s pretty piece of ass for tonight’s fun led to us finding out the truth behind Blüdhaven’s protector.”

Dick feels a chill run through him. If these people knew who he was, he had essentially given up the identities of all the Gotham vigilantes. _Fuck_ , how could he be so _stupid_.

“What do you want,” he says, with a glare that could freeze over the desert.

“Ah ah,” the man tuts,” that’s for us to know and you to find out, _Nightwing_. Or would you rather me call you Mr. Grayson?”

Dick yanks against the restraints with a snarl at that, fruitlessly tugging against the leather.

The doctor had been busying herself in a cabinet to the side of him while the man was talking, and Dick flinches when she presses a bandage over the row of stitches on his bicep. Finishing quickly, she steps back from the bed slightly and looks at the man standing at the foot of the bed.

“Sir?” She asks.

“Give him the relaxer, I want him to be awake but not able to fight us for this,” the man replies, a sadistic smile spreading across his face.

“Right away sir,” she says turning and pulling over another machine near the bed.

Dick recognizes it immediately, and his thrashing is renewed as he struggles to get away from the doctor to no avail.

The man gestures to one of the guards, and he approaches the other side of the bed and holding down Dick’s face, one hand on his chin and forehead. Dick continues to thrash, and spits a gob of saliva directly at the guard’s face. The man lets go for a second to wipe the spit off his face, and the retaliation slap catches him completely off guard, knocking the breath out of him briefly and splitting his lip.

The doctor quickly fits the mask over his face from there, with the guard holding him still. He holds his breath as he hears the gas hissing in through the tube, knowing that he won’t be able to hold it forever but he can still try.

The punch to his gut comes completely out of the blue, and it makes him gasp for breath, successfully inhaling a few breaths of the gas coming in through the mask.

A few breaths is all it takes, and he can feel his body going lax against his will, muscles loosening and his breathing calming down. The guard and doctor remove their hands from his face and the mask, knowing he won’t be able to fight against the mask still resting on his face.

“Very unbecoming behavior of such a polished young man,” the boss says.

Half lidded eyes lazily look in his direction, the slurred “Fck ou” muffled from behind the mask.

They leave it on for a few more minutes, and Dick can feel every bit of tension and resistance in his body slowly evaporating, a fog settling over his mind.

They remove the mask, and Dick startles when gloved fingers grasp his jaw and probe into his mouth. He tries to flinch away, but the drugs are in complete effect now and he can barely twitch a finger, tongue sitting loose and heavy in his mouth.

Dick sees the muzzle being handed to the doctor by one of the guards out of the corner of his eye, and struggles to close his mouth, mumbling “no” around the doctor’s finger still in his mouth.

“Just a precaution in case the drugs wear off sooner than expected,” she says, something dark glinting in her eye as she looks down at him. “We’ve heard that you’re quite talkative.”

Dick can only glare as she fits the rubber over his tongue and presses the leather tight to his face, lifting his head slightly so she can buckle the straps behind his head.

“Sir, what do you want to do about his mask?” She asks.

“Leave it on, people will pay more to be the one to unmask him,” The man says. “If you’re done prepping him, let’s bring him up.”

“Of course sir,” says the guard by his head.

He hears the sound of the wheels on his bed unlocking, and then they’re moving, one guard pushing his bed from behind while the doctor, other guard and boss walk on either side of him.

They wind through several hallways before arriving at a large elevator, the doors already open and waiting.

The elevator ride is short, only a few floors up, but the hallway they arrive in is much nicer than the wet, bare concrete of the facility below. They seem to be below a stage of some sort, and Dick can hear the sound of people talking above him as he blankly stares up at the ceiling.

The sound of the boss filters through his drugged haze, and he tries to focus on the words when he feels the restraints holding him to the bed being unfastened.

One of the guards slides his legs over the edge of the bed, while the other grabs him under the arms and together they lift him off the bed and drag him to a platform a few feet away.

Setting him down so he’s on his knees, they busy themselves with putting his wrists in heavy cuffs attached to poles on either side of him. The doctor comes in front of him and attaches a heavy collar bolted to the floor around his neck, effectively restraining him with only a few inches of movement in any direction.

The doctor lifts his head by the straps on his muzzle and shines a penlight into his eyes, checking what Dick assumes to be his response time under the influence of the drugs.

Everything seemingly finished, the guards and the doctor step to the side of him. The boss squats down in front of him, lifting up his head from where it rests on his chest and meeting his eyes.

“I’m sure you won’t enjoy any second of this, but someone will pay top dollar for you and you’re gonna help this organization thrive and continue doing what we do best,” he says, before roughly dropping Dick’s head and stepping off the platform.

Dick can see him gesture to someone to the right of him, and then suddenly the platform is rising, leaving him to glare down at his captors as he rises through the stage above.

The lights are blinding, and through them Dick can barely make out the huge auditorium around him, thousands of murmuring spectators staring back at him. He can spot several of his enemies in the front row, and his heart sinks at the realization.

He’s being auctioned off to the criminal underbelly of Blüdhaven.

The squeal of a microphone makes him flinch, and he turns his eyes toward a boisterous looking man standing next to the platform with a microphone in hand.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the grand prize of tonight! The famous Nightwing is up for grabs! Do with him as you will, let’s begin bidding at 70,000!” He says, the excitement palpable in his voice.

Dick tunes out the voices as the bids slowly rise, instead focusing on getting movement back into his body.

By the time the bids hit $350,000, he can twitch his fingers and toes.

When $575,000 comes around, he can curl his fingers into a fist and lift his head to stare out at the audience.

At $725,000, he slowly maneuvers his legs to distribute pressure more evenly so as to not disrupt the blow flow in his legs, careful to not let anyone watching notice.

At $800,000, he decides to start listening as the bids come in slower and people start to run out of money.

It takes about ten more minutes for the last bids to trickle in, totaling in around $935,000, when he can move most of his body. He’s still weak and shaky, but he thinks he could throw a punch and run once he’s out of the chains. Anything else would be too taxing and he would get taken out too easily.

It’s the voice that places the last bid the sends chills down his spine.

“One point five million,” Deathstroke says, voice carrying in the way only he can manage.

A hush falls over the auditorium.

“Do I hear any higher bids?” The announcer calls.

Silence.

 _Please_. Dick thinks. _Anyone but him._

“Any bids?” The announcer calls again.

Silence.

“Sold! To the man in the back!”

Murmurs spread over the crowd at the declaration.

“Sir, if you could please come backstage to claim your prize!”

Dick sees Slade stand from his seat, slowly making his way down to the front from his position in the far back corner, as the platform Dick is chained to slowly sinks back into the floor.

And _fuck_ , he needs to be quick. He won’t be able to go against Deathstroke in his current state. The simpleton guards, perhaps. Slade? Absolutely not.

The platform reaches the bottom of the stage, and now that Dick isn’t fighting the drugged haze as much he can see there’s more guards standing around the room, six in total if he’s counting correctly.

The same guards approach him again, one holding him below the arms while the other unchains his wrists and neck. He can appreciate the consideration to not let him faceplant, at least.

Still pretending to be out of it, the second the chain around his neck is off, he springs into action. Rearing his head back, he slams his head into the face of the guard holding him, relishing in the crunch of his nose under Dick’s forehead.

The other guard shouts, drawing the attention of the remaining four, who rush to the aid of the two dealing with Dick.

By now, he’s stumbling to his feet, dealing a nasty throat punch to the other guard which leaves him coughing and choking on the floor.

Taking a few unsteady steps off the platform, Dick starts to run, bare feet slapping against the wood floor.

He’s out of breath halfway to the door, the drugs still in his system weighing him down more than he anticipated. He catches the eye of the boss, and grins at the furious expression on his face as he shouts at the guards to catch him.

He’s almost out the door and into the hallway when there’s a hard kick to his knee from the side, and as he crumples to the ground with a muffled scream he knows at once his knee is dislocated.

He tries to crawl to his feet, but a heavy boot kicks him in the side, flipping him over so he’s looking up at the familiar black and orange mask standing above him.

_Fuck. He got here too fast._

Slade settles down on top of Dick’s stomach, keeping him pinned to the floor with his considerable weight.

“I was almost impressed with how well they had you subdued, _Nightwing_. Come to find you’re still the same slippery little bastard you’ve always been,” he says, amusement clear in his voice.

“We’re very sorry about that sir, he has an unusual resistance to drugs, we expected him to be down for at least another hour,” Dick hears the boss tell Slade from somewhere to his right. He feels some sort of satisfaction that the boss’s reputation has been somewhat scarred from him.

Slade doesn’t answer, instead leaning forward slightly, adjusting the grip he has on Dick’s arms to pin his wrists against the wood on either side of his head, instead of by his side.

“I have to say, kid, this isn’t a bad look for you,” he murmurs. “The muzzle really adds something, it’s nice to have you shut up for once.”

Dick can only struggle under his hold, seething at his words.

He sees the stockinged legs of the nurse approach on his left, and struggles even more frantically when she crouches down to his level, a syringe in her hand.

She shifts the tattered sleeve to the side, giving her more access to the vein in the crook of his elbow. Another guard materializes and holds down the upper part of his arm, effectively pinning him and preventing any movement.

Dick is helpless as the needle slides in, and judging by the instant drowsiness he feels, it’s a sedative this time around, not just a muscle relaxer.

The guard and doctor stand, leaving just him and Slade on the floor of the auction house.

It takes about 30 seconds this time for his body to go limp, and he feels Slade stand, no longer needing to pin him to the floor with the sedative in effect.

He sees the boss offer a hand over his body through hazy eyes, saying “Pleasure doing business with you sir, do you require any assistance with transport?”

Deathstroke just chuckles, “No, I’ve got it covered.”

He bends down and picks up Dick just as the drugs pull him under, slinging him over his shoulder and proceeding to where he has his car parked in the alleyway behind the auction house.  
_________________

Dick wakes on the floor of a bare cell. Blank white walls stare back at him, the only features being the steel door and the two security cameras blinking at him from opposite corners of the ceiling.

He still feels drowsy and weak, and bets on Slade having sedated him again or given him something else to keep him compliant.

His arms are pinned to his sides in a tight straight jacket, and there’s a single cuff around his right ankle securing him to the wall with a short chain. He notices he’s not wearing his suit or mask anymore, instead simple cotton pants and no shirt under the straight jacket.

The muzzle is still on, the leather digging into his cheeks from how long he must have been wearing it at this point. His chin feels wet from the amount of drool the rubber bit forced into his mouth is making him produce, and his mouth feels full of cotton and dry.

He tries to stand, but between still suffering the effects of the sedative and his imbalance due to the straightjacket, he only manages to get to his knees before slumping back to the ground on his side.

It takes only a few minutes from him waking for the door to crawl open, and he scrambles to get his feet under him.

Slade is standing in the doorway, still in full gear but sans mask.

“Welcome home, Apprentice.”

**Author's Note:**

> Not me, writing a oneshot I may or may not continue, when im supposed to be finishing my other WIP. No officer, I don't know her. 
> 
> Anywayyy, come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/jasontiddie) bc im bored af and need friends


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